Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (8 page)

She turned back to demand another glass of the icy cold drink, and even pressed it for a moment against her cheek trying to block him from her mind. After a moment or two, however, she couldn’t help but glance back. The honest truth was that assessing the eminent marquess as to his points was far too much fun to forgo.

Strong lines to his face, too, though with an elegance of bone that took any heaviness from it. Long straight nose and a fine arch over the eye emphasized by dark, well-shaped brows.

Eyes set a little deep, which perhaps gave them that sense of power. Dark lashes, too, of course, which also drew attention to the eyes. A mouth that could look cold, but bracketed by creases that deepened with his occasional restrained but strangely alluring smiles.

The conversation among the men suddenly settled to an argument between two others and he glanced around. Hastily, Diana looked back at the ladies, feeling her face heat. Had she been quick enough, or did he know she’d been staring at him? Someone did. Rosa, who’d joined the group without her being aware of it, gave her a thoughtful look.

Plague take the man. And plague take her for sliding into such folly. It was the wedding. Weddings were not good for the nerves of a woman resolved on lifelong chastity.

Rosa strolled over, beaded glass in hand. “If you keep looking at the man like that,” she said quietly, “you’ll stir rumors.”

“Don’t be silly.”

Rosa drew her away a little from the other women. “Elf has already asked me a couple of oblique questions.”

“About me and the marquess? How peculiar.”

This was Rosa, however, who knew her far too well to be deceived. Diana led the way out of the door and down the corridor toward open air.

“He’s a fascinating man,” Rosa said when they were outside. “And handsome—if one admires a finely-made blade.”

Diana stopped to face her. “That’s not fair. There’s more to him than a weapon.” When her cousin’s brows rose, she cursed her impulsive tongue. “Perdition, Rosa, I just feel sorry for him.”

“
Sorry
…” Rosa echoed. “For the Marquess of Rothgar?”

“You’re as bad as the rest! I thought you said he was the one who sorted out your problems and made this all happen. You should be grateful.”

“I am, but—”

“Yes he’s brilliant, elegant, and carries England in the cup of his hand, but …” Knowing she was going to regret her words Diana still couldn’t stop. “He’s alone, Rosa. Don’t
you see that? He’s created a loving family, but he’s not part of it—”

“Of course he is.”

“Well, yes. But not as a
brother
. Not quite. And his mother’s madness means he won’t create a family of his own. You must see how that resonates with me. I have no siblings, and I will never have a family.”

“There’s nothing to stop—”

Diana waved that aside. “His gifts, his powers, must set him apart from other men. How many men in England feel truly at ease with him? And how many can he allow himself to be at ease with?”

Rosa was studying her with a frown. “But the marquess knows everyone, and is known everywhere. He can’t go down the street in London without being recognized.”

Diana knew the “delights” of that. Doubtless he, like she, even had his face on inn-signs. True, the picture of her hanging outside the Countess of Arradale Inn in Ripon wasn’t an excellent likeness, but it was close enough. She could not go anywhere in the north in private.

Unless she adopted a disguise, she thought, remembering the time last year when she’d played the part of Rosa’s spotty maid. When she met the Marquess of Rothgar for the first time—

She snapped herself out of that. “What of his more intimate friends?”

And what of mine? echoed inside, as she made herself move, strolling back to the barn and the dancing.

Yes, she too had a wide acquaintance, and was recognized all over these parts, but who could she count as a true friend? Only Rosa, who today was taking up a new life that must surely absorb her interest.

“He does have a magnificent mistress.”

Diana’s heart missed a beat, but she instantly recovered. “He doesn’t worry about passing on his madness through her?”

“Rumor says she is barren.”

“Convenient.” Diana realized that yet again she was
wrapped up in the marquess and his affairs. It seemed like a thorny thicket, snagging her whichever way she turned.

“She’s very striking, too,” Rosa was saying. “In a foreign style.”

Something suddenly struck Diana. “Are you saying the Mallorens introduced you to her? To a member of the demimonde?”

“Of course not. I really shouldn’t have called her his mistress. It’s only hinted at. She’s a scholar and poet who holds select salons. I went to one with Brand.”

A scholar and poet. Though well-educated, Diana was neither of those things. A painful little knot formed inside her, and she had the dreadful feeling that it might be jealousy.

Obsessive curiosity was bad enough. Jealousy would be the final ridiculous straw!

“A formidable mind?” she asked, only because she had to say something. “So that is what draws the marquess to a woman.”

They had reached the big open doors to the barn, where merry dance music greeted them. “They certainly seem to have a great deal in common,” Rosa said. “Elegance. Intellect. They both seem as self-sufficient as silky, aristocratic cats.”

“Cats?” Diana queried in surprise. “Hard to imagine Lord Rothgar sprawled bonelessly on someone’s lap purring.”

Rosa smothered a hoot of laughter. “Oh, I don’t know. He must be human once in a while.”

Diana forced a grin, but she knew she was blushing. Comments like that made her sharply aware of how little she really knew of the business of intimacy.

Men sprawled on laps? Purring?

Lord Rothgar?

She couldn’t help trying to imagine it, but despite having read books of the most explicit kind, she failed. All the same, as an imaginary notion, it swirled in her brain …

Flute, fiddle, and drum rang around her, and within the barn happy couples skipped up and down lines. Other people sat around chatting, and she glimpsed quite a few young couples in quiet corners stealing a moment for courting
conversation or even kisses. One swain rubbed his head against his companion’s in a movement that was strangely catlike—

“Curiosity satisfied?” Rosa asked.

“I’m not curious,” Diana instinctively protested, but then pulled a face. There was no hiding it. Seeing a group of young children, she allowed herself one more indulgence. “I saw him with his little nephew.”

“Remarkable, isn’t it? Even shocking in a way. Like seeing an infant with a tiger. But he seems genuinely fond of them all.”

Lord Steen’s daughters—flushed and bright-eyed—were being included in the adult dances, but Diana saw young Arthur stamping and swaying to the music with the other small children.

Lord Bryght’s copper-haired infant sprawled asleep in his mother’s arms where she sat with two local matrons as if she were just another gentleman’s wife.

One of the other ladies, Mrs. Knowlsworth, broke off what she was saying to pay attention to a young girl who had run up with a complaint of some sort.

A dancing child—her cousin Sukey’s second, she thought—tumbled and was picked up and soothed …

Another world.

The world of mothers and children.

Not for her.

Never for her, for she had rank and privileges granted to few women.

“You’re right,” she said crisply. “The marquess should marry. I’m surprised someone hasn’t persuaded him.”

“That his mother wasn’t mad?”

“That it’s worth the risk.”

“Apparently Lord Bryght tried not long ago. I gather it was not a pretty scene.”

Diana might have weakened and probed for details on that if Lord Brand hadn’t come into the barn then. The look in his eyes, when he spotted his bride almost stopped her breath.

“I think your husband is growing impatient, Rosa.”

Rosa turned, lovely color flushing her smiling face. She
laughed in the way of a person suddenly bubbling with delight and extended both hands to her smiling husband. “After nearly a year? We’ve perfected patience, haven’t we, my lord?”

Diana knew that after their brief flare of illicit passion they had agreed to wait until they could marry.

Turning soberly intent, Lord Brand carried both hands to his lips. “After nearly a year, my lady, my patience is in short supply.”

Both stilled for a moment like statues. A framed moment of deep desire. Wasn’t it worth the loss of everything to have a man look at her like that?

Just once.

“It is time,” Rosa said, now a deep pink and sliding against her husband, within his arms, while hardly seeming aware of it. She held out one hand to Diana. “Thank you for all you did last year. And”—she pulled free and hugged Diana—“be
happy,
Diana! Whatever you do, be happy. See. It is real. It can be grasped. I want for you what I have found for myself.”

Diana returned the fierce hug, blinking back tears. “Of course I’ll be happy!” she declared. “I
am
happy. You know our tastes often differ. I enjoy politics, and administration, and grand entertainments. I even enjoy accounts and legal matters.” She pulled back and summoned a brilliant smile. “I’ll be wonderfully happy being the Grande Seigneuress of the North, and driving the stodgy world of men distracted.”

It looked as if Rosa would protest, but she just shook her head and kissed Diana’s cheek, then let her impatient husband lead her back to the house. Doubtless their horses were already waiting at the front. It was some distance to their new home at Wenscote, with little that could be called a road in between.

Diana called for the music to stop, and for the guests to send the couple off with grain and flowers. She picked up her pale skirts and ran to the house to seize one of the prepared baskets of flowers herself. Then she wove through the gathering crowd so that people could take a handful.
She would see her cousin into her new life with smiles and flowers.

When she came up to the marquess, she offered the basket teasingly, but to her surprise, he gathered a mass of blossoms in both hands. Then, strolling over to where Brand and Rosa were saying farewell to her parents, he poured them over his brother’s head.

Brand turned, laughing, complaining, and trying to brush multicolored petals from his hair. After a still, smiling moment, he embraced his brother without restraint. Shockingly, at least to Diana, the marquess embraced him back, even lowering his head a moment to rest against the other.

A large part of this happy outcome had been Lord Rothgar’s work, but she had thought it came from pride, duty, and a love of efficiency. She saw now that she’d been wrong. Nor was it all fueled by guilt. He loved. Though generally he sheathed it in steel and velvet like the dangerous blade it was, he loved his brothers and sisters to a remarkable degree.

Swallowing, she moved on quickly, offering her flowers, eyes a little blurred. What did it matter? It was nothing to do with her.

She kept the last handful of flowers and threw them at Rosa as the happy couple rode off. She stamped on the thought that she was waving goodbye to her closest friend, to someone who had been as close as a sister, as a twin even—

“Is marriage such undiluted tragedy, Lady Arradale?”

Diana started, and found the marquess by her side. “Not at all, my lord.”

“Ah, tears of happiness, I gather.”

He didn’t think that for a moment. “I am not crying,” she stated, and indeed, she was not, though they clogged her throat.

“Tears are not always visible.”

Diana faced him, eyes deliberately wide, and dry. “You wax metaphysical, my lord.”

“Perhaps everything of importance is metaphysical, my lady.”

“Faith, but if everything of importance is beyond our senses, we are like feathers on the wind.”

“Have you never felt exactly like that?”

She caught her breath, for it did describe her state today. “Have you?”

It burst out of raw curiosity. Though she might have glimpsed some of his vulnerabilities, she’d never imagined the marquess blown on the wind. Not even on a hurricane.

“The coaches await,” he said, taking her basket and turning her toward the road with the slightest touch on her arm. “I do my best to tether to rock, my lady, though even rocks prove untrustworthy at times. You will miss your cousin, I think.”

As an instinctive defensive move, she retorted, “You will miss your brother.”

A sharp look told her she’d scored. “Your last brother,” she continued with sudden realization. “All your family save you are now married, are they not, my lord?”

If there had been a hit, he’d recovered. “A Herculean task, but accomplished, yes.”

“So what will you do with your matchmaking instincts now?”

“Turn all my tender care to my country, dear lady.”

“Matchmaking Britannia with whom?”

“Why, with peace, of course. Does a long period of peace not seem desirable to you?” He passed the basket to a servant, but picked something out of it. She saw that one scarlet poppy had caught there. Poppy, which could aid peaceful sleep, or become a perilous addiction.

“Peace is excellent,” she said.

“You don’t regret the lost opportunity to seize all of France’s holdings?”

“Do you?”

“I thought the cost too great.”

With the slightest of smiles he tucked the stem down her bodice, down behind her busk so it tickled between her breasts. In the end, only the vibrant blossom rested against the frill of white lace there.

And she let him.

She looked up into his dark, disturbing eyes, seeing that they were not dark brown, but a steely dark gray. “What do you want with me, my lord?”

He murmured something in Greek.

She said: “Aristotle.”

Those heavy-lidded eyes widened, and with considerable satisfaction, she knew she had startled him. “Easier to study others than ourselves,” she translated. “More comfortable to judge their actions than our own.”

After a moment, he said, “Of course. Having only a daughter, and one who would inherit, your father gave you a man’s education.”